


The Bone Pit

by GhostGarrison



Series: The Bone(r) Pit [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Interviews, M/M, Nervousness, No Prostitution, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not his first choice—oh no, most likely his last—but when medical school bills are burying him, Anders decides to pursue another part time job. Luckily, the local gay strip club is hiring and he has an interview.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bone Pit

Hands deep in his pockets, Anders moves through the backstreets of Darktown, dodging puddles that would undoubtedly soak through the thin, worn leather of his boots. It had only stopped raining ten minutes before, leaving the air more crisp than usual, giving Kirkwall’s most dilapidated neighborhood the rinse it desperately needed. People are just beginning to re-emerge from whatever hovel they had previously used as shelter from the wicked downpour.

Though Anders doesn’t live anywhere that could be remotely considered nice, his corner of Darktown is certainly better than this. Decrepit buildings—some of which look completely abandoned—line the crumbling streets, towering over his head and blending into the early evening’s quickly darkening sky.

When he turns an empty corner, his destination comes into view. The bright neon sign glows at the end of the street like a beacon, beckoning him. The closer he gets to it, the more he wishes to turn back and forget this whole idea.

But the thoughts of the ever-growing number of money he owes and the ever-shrinking number of money he has pulses new determination through his veins, feeding him like a drug. Anders always knew that being a medical student would have him in debt for years, but combined with a car that won’t start and apartment heating that doesn’t, well, _heat,_ therein lies the issue.

He’s broke, tired, hungry, and needs more money than the average part-time job is able to provide. And if he wants to keep his toes this upcoming winter, he needs to find a source of significant income.

Thankfully one of patients of the university-run clinic, Isabela, passed him a name and a number—with the promise of a job with a wage that he truly could not ignore.

Stripping. 

Or rather, ‘exotic dancing’ as Isabela has always insisted on calling it. The woman owns The Pearl, a ladies-only strip club near the Docks, but supposedly has a business partner pursuing similar goals. ‘ _His name’s Hawke, and I’m sure he’d be interested in hiring a guy like you,_ ’ she told him boldly while sitting on the clinic’s examination table, dressed in a paper gown.

It would be a laughable situation if he weren’t so in need.

She holds up her hands, long and slender fingers forming a rectangle as if to frame Anders within it, one eye closing as she imagines it. ‘ _You, on the center stage. A feather boa. Glitter,_ ’ she had said. When he realized what she was suggesting, he turned bright red, thanked her for the offer, and waved her off.

Only to begrudgingly seek her out two weeks later, when his heater broke down, asking for the name and number again.

So here he is, traversing the darker edges of Darktown on his way to an interview to become a stripp— _exotic dancer_. Anders feels slightly too dressed up in a button-up shirt and his nicest dark-wash jeans, especially for a seedy place with a name as ridiculously awful like _The Bone Pit_. Though, he supposes it shouldn’t matter what he wears, since if he gets the job, he’ll spend a lot of time unclothed.

He shakes the slightly embarrassing thought from his head, approaching the building and it’s vibrant, luminous neon sign.

It’s approaching dinner hour, and the club has yet to open its doors for a night of business. When he knocks on the door, a handsome tan elf with jagged facial tattoos answers.

“Ah, you must be here to see Hawke, yes?” The elf smiles, and it’s so charismatic that Anders feels his cheeks redden, completely drawn in. He must be good, perhaps an audience favorite, to be able to capture someone with only a smile. 

“Come in, come in,” the elf says, ushering him into the building before locking the door again behind them. “My name is Zevran, and yours?”

“A-Anders,” he says, not knowing why he’s so nervous suddenly. He hasn’t even met with the club’s owner yet.

“Well, Mr. Anders, I’m sure that if you come to work here, you will do well.”

Zevran continues to talk as they weave through the chairs and tables of the club’s main floor, but Anders is too distracted ogling the various stages and equipment. The center stage has three poles, and both side stages have two poles each. The backdrops are heavy velvet curtains, their deep blue hues distorted by the bright and colorful lights projected onto them.

The elf leads him to the back of the large open space that smells slightly of smoke, through a locked door that exposes a narrow flight of stairs to the upper floor. At the top of the stairs, the atmosphere is completely different. The hallway is painted a stark white, a jarring comparison to the dimly lit but colorful floor beneath them, and similarly painted doors line the hall.

“And here is the main business office,” Zevran says, gesturing to the door at the very end whose frosted glass window is labeled ‘G. Hawke’ with black vinyl lettering. The elf smiles again—and Anders finds himself blushing again, cursing that smile of his—before turning and knocking on the door.

“Come in.”

Zevran opens the door, revealing a medium sized office that somehow looks too plain to be the office of a strip club owner.

However, the man behind the large teak desk is ridiculously good-looking, his presence nearly being a decoration by itself. The club owner is built—broad shoulders and chest, thick arm muscles barely disguised underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his deep red button-up shirt, the top two buttons undone to see a glimpse of dark chest hair. His beard is well-kept, trimmed in a way that accentuates the shape of his face. His brown eyes gleam even in the bland fluorescent lighting, crinkling at the edges when he smiles.

‘ _Why is the owner so handsome?_ ’ Anders wonders. ‘ _Aren’t strip club owners supposed to be old skeevy perverts?_ ’ He didn’t expect this to be the appearance of a man named Hawke. Well, Anders didn’t really know what he expected at all coming into this interview, but he surely didn’t expect a man handsome enough to be a dancer to be the club’s owner.

Anders is so distracted by the appearance of the man before him that he barely recognizes that Hawke has stood up, extending his hand toward him. He takes it, and just as expected, the man’s hand is warm and his grip is firm. The man smiles at him, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Hawke.”

“Anders.”

“Anders,” Hawke repeats, and the sound of his name is sweeter when said in that deep, baritone voice. “Please, sit,” He gestures to one of the two chairs arranged before his desk. When Anders does, the club owner takes a silent moment to look him over, bearded chin perched on his hands. “Let me guess: paying your way through college.”

Anders chokes back a surprised sound, blushing immediately. He must seem so cliché. “Medical school.”

At his response, Hawke lets out a laugh, so exuberant and hearty that it echoes in Anders’ bones. The pleasant sound of it lightens up his mood considerably, calming his nerves. “We haven’t had a doctor before!”

Anders shrugs then nods, not knowing what else to say.

“Well, let’s get down to it. Do you have any experience?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“That’s okay, we can work with that,” Hawke assures him, and Anders wonders why the man even asks the question in the first place.

“So you’re a student—I’m sorry, a med student. Say, Anders, do you have any hobbies? What do you do in your spare time?”

The question would be normal in any other interview, but it strikes him as odd. Anders shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t have a lot of spare time between studying and working the clinic. I do spend time with friends, and… and my cat.”

The mention of his pet causes Hawke’s expression to brighten considerably. “Oh? What’s its name?”

Anders furrows his brows. Why is a strip club owner interested in his cat? “Ser Pounce-a-lot.”

“Clever!”

The man across the desk from him is baffling. Built like an Olympic lumberjack, with an outgoing and gregarious personality, inexplicably genuine in asking him about his pet. Like a mabari-turned-human, like an old folktale come true.

“Well Anders,” Hawke begins, rising to his feet. “You seem like a good person. Let me show you around.”

Hawke leads him on an official tour through the offices, explaining some of the roles of the scant management staff. They wander back down the stairs, past the velvet curtains of the stages to the dressing rooms—or “undressing rooms” as Hawke says, laughing at his own pun and it makes Anders lips turn up in a smile. The room is incredibly bright from the light bulbs that encircle each of the mirrors. It’s clear that each vanity belongs to a certain dancer, from how the surface of each one is arranged. The last one is nearly covered with pictures of a smiling dwarf woman, some of which have hand drawn hearts around her.

When Hawke sees his eyes catch on it, he chuckles. “That’s Zevran’s girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Anders asks dubiously.

“Well yeah,” Hawke replies, shrugging as if this is a question he’s been asked many times before. “This may be a gay club but not everyone here is gay.”

‘ _That makes sense,_ ’ Anders thinks to himself, knowing that he considers himself bisexual. He chides himself for stereotyping, feeling a little shameful about it.

“He also will talk your ear off about her, so I suggest not bringing her up,” the club owner advises him, speaking to Anders as if he already has the job—which unsettles Anders’ nerves. “Zevran’ll still tell you all about her, of course, but don’t bring it on yourself. That’s just asking for him to wax poetic. He’s a true romantic.” 

When they return to the main stage, Anders is surprised to see Isabela herself behind the bar at the back of the room. She has a line of three shot glasses on the counter, pouring vodka into each one before returning the bottle to its high shelf.

Hawke, however, just sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t you have your own alcohol to steal? In your own club?”

Between shot number one and shot number two, Isabela grins at him, winking one well-lined eye at them both. “Of course, but you stock the good stuff.” She downs the last shot like a pro, sliding the three empty glasses into the bin to be washed. “Have you seen Zevran anywhere? His girlfriend sends word from The Pearl.”

“Playing messenger today, are you?” Hawke retorts. “He’s upstairs.”

“Ah, thanks. New recruit?” Isabela says, lewdly eying Anders as she saunters toward them. “He’s a cute one.” She winks at him.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Oh, you’re like an innocent kitten,” she says, patting his cheek. “You’ll have to get used to compliments. They’ll be thrown at you all night. Usually accompanied by sweaty bills.”

‘ _Gross,_ ’ Anders thinks, shuddering but he ultimately resigns himself to that germ-covered fate.

“Well,” the woman says, the word rolling over her tongue. She cocks an eyebrow as she looks between Hawke and Anders, looking them over with a knowing eye. “I’ll leave you two alone… To do your, whatever this is. Interview, is it?” She turns on her heel, tossing a sly wink over her shoulder. “Good luck, Dr. Anders.”

Both men wordlessly watch the woman weave through the tables, disappearing behind the door of the stairs leading toward the business offices.

Once the door swings shut behind her, Hawke immediately turns to face Anders. “So,” the man begins. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Anders freezes in place, eyes widening at the man. “What? Here? Now?”

Hawke gives a sort of half-laugh. “Well, it’s now or never.”

Anders supposes that’s true—and really, he shouldn’t be as surprised about it as he is. This _is_ an interview for a strip club. Of course it’s logical for a performance to be necessary to get the job.

Swallowing, Anders nods, his previously soothed nerves suddenly back with a vengeance after having retreated after a time of casual and light conversation with the club’s owner. “Okay.”

With unsteady legs, Anders makes his way up the side stairs at the side of the main stage. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hawke dragging a heavy chair to the middle of the floor. Lounging in it with his legs splayed casually, he pulls a phone from his pocket and begins scrolling through it.

“Any preference for music?” he asks.

“Uhm, not really.”

“You’ll figure that out soon.” Hawke chuckles, selecting something on his phone. Suddenly a slow, sensual tune floods the room from hidden speakers, with a rolling rhythm and deep bass. A woman begins singing, the lyrics immediately speaking of lust, of touch, of need. Anders vaguely recognises the artist, but obviously hasn’t heard this song before.

For a moment, Anders doesn’t know what to do. But when he sees the way Hawke watches him expectantly, it makes him begin to move.

He begins the dance subtly, slowly moving his hips in a figure-eight pattern to the beat of the music. The movement slowly builds, involving more and more of his body. 

From both the bright stage lights and the fact that he’s _stripping_ , Anders is positive that his face is turning pink, and he hopes that it isn’t too noticeable. He’s heavily relying on his online research using stolen wifi, from numerous videos and articles he’s read in preparation for this. He doesn’t dare touching the pole directly behind him, not knowing how to use it while not looking awkward. In his experience, looking awkward at an exotic dancer interview—at _any_ interview—is not a good thing.

Continuing to roll his hips to the rhythm of the song, Anders presses his hands flat to his stomach, his rising body heat seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. He slowly drags them up his chest until his fingers brush against the top button of his shirt. With practiced fingers, he undoes his shirt buttons torturously slow—the first two almost lazily, and then the rest while turning in a slow circle, led by the sway of his hips. He lets his shirt fall open, revealing the pale expanse of his toned chest. The club’s cool air feels good against his heated skin. He shrugs the shoulders off, pausing there to turn once more to show his back. He peels the rest of it off, and the cotton flutters to the floor without a sound.

Somewhere along the line, Anders closed his eyes in order to get into the music, the movement, the performance. Trying to lose himself in it. When reminds himself to open them, the earthy hues of Hawke’s eyes in the empty darkened audience immediately draw his attention. Their gazes meet, and Anders finds himself locked on, caught up in those brown eyes.

The way Hawke watches him with such attentiveness gives Anders an unexpected burst of renewed strength and confidence, a risky sort of confidence that leads him to step off the stage—first onto a chair, then to the floor. The club owner’s eyebrows shoot up, but otherwise doesn’t make a move or sound.

Not breaking eye contact, Anders closes the distance between him step by step, taking each one as an opportunity to do something different. The corner of Hawke’s lips twitches into a satisfied smirk when Anders reaches his arms over his head, one hand pulling his ponytail free and the other running fingers through his hair.

Closer and closer, Anders continues to dance, watching Hawke with building lust. The man sits in the chair, lounging so casually, watching him with those copper-colored eyes that are so entrancing. He has no right being so handsome, so alluring yet unattainable.

One stride away from his potential new employer, Anders skims his hands back down the planes of his chest, fingers tracing the longest path to the fly of his pants. The button comes undone too easily, but he makes a show of dragging the zipper down while still swaying his hips. His jeans now hang lower on his hips, exposing the sharp jut of his hipbones and the waistband of his nicest pair of emerald green briefs.

Taking one last step, Anders is standing between the man’s long, spread legs. He’s nearly in the man’s lap, and he feels his face burn up at the mental image of actually being in the man’s lap, pressed up against him in all the right places.

The attempt to push that thought away is shattered when Hawke reaches out, settling both hands on his hips. The sudden touch makes Anders’ movements stutter, but instead he finds himself being guided by those broad, strong, yet gentle hands. They’re so warm, nearly burning him, and all Anders wants is to melt into them. 

“Hey,” Hawke says, voice husky but gentle. “Slower, like this. I can tell you’re getting nervous.”

‘ _Because of you,_ ’ Anders thinks.

Hawke keeps his hands planted on each side of his hips, guiding them in a smooth but painfully slow rotation. The action is meant to be teaching him, but Anders finds it increasingly difficult to focus on anything more than where Hawke’s hands heat his skin, the smokey smell of the club, and the deep, deep brown of the man’s eyes.

When Hawke draws his hands away, Anders nearly mourns the loss of their touch. He dutifully keeps up the same movement, returning his focus on the performance he’s supposed to be putting on.

He runs his fingers through his hair again, no doubt making a mess of it, before reaching down to hook both thumbs under the waistband of both his jeans and briefs. Slowly he inches them down, and Anders relishes in how Hawke’s eyes finally break away from his gaze, raking down his chest to track where his pants slowly slide across his skin.

Anders is completely snapped out of his reverie when warm hands settle over his own, pinning them firmly against his hips. Hawke holds him steady, stopping the dance, and Anders is momentarily confused, hurt even.

‘ _Am I that bad?_ ’

But then he notices the way Hawke’s fingers grip his, and how the man looks a little strained. Perhaps even a little red.

“I’ve seen enough,” the man announces, suddenly standing. It’s jarring how Hawke now speaks formally, in short, cropped sentences. “I think you’ll do just fine here. You’re hired, welcome aboard. Come in early on Wednesday for paperwork. Zevran will train you.”

Without another word, Hawke retreats to behind the door leading to the business offices, leaving Anders half-naked in the middle of the empty club floor.

After putting on his now wrinkled shirt, Anders lets himself out of the club, pleased with himself that he did a good enough job to be hired, but also perplexed about his new employer’s behavior.

He shrugs it off the best he can, hoping it won’t make things awkward or strained when he starts on Wednesday. He needs this job, and its money, more than anything.

 

◆

 

Slipping into his office thankfully unseen by Zevran and Isabela, Hawke closes the door behind him and rests his forehead on the cool surface of the wall. He’s nearly overheating, and hard—unbelievably unmistakably _hard_. He’s watched hundreds of dances from dozens of dancers over the years of running The Bone Pit, never has he been so entranced—so _turned on_ —by someone so unpracticed, so unsure of what they’re doing. But it was the rare glimpses of the confidence Anders is capable of that really hooked him. The bold courage it took to step off the stage, to do something different, to prowl toward him with a focused hunger in his eyes. That will be unforgettable.

“He’ll be good one day,” Hawke grumbles in the silence of his office, reaching down to palm himself through his pants. “So very good.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are deeply appreciated
> 
> this will eventually become a verse
> 
> come find me on Tumblr @ storybookhawke


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